blood red lips and fingertips
by Child-OTKW
Summary: Jerome, after the carnival, after the chaos, after the room of mirrors, found only one thing occupying his thoughts. FemBruce


**I'm a bit of a nerd for Gotham. It's a delightful little show, and I really, really, really adore the dynamics they've created between Jerome and Bruce, and Jeremiah and Bruce. So I decided to do a little thing with Jerome, and a female Bruce.**

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She was pretty in the way broken glass was. Or the fresh splatter of blood on a white wall.

Jerome's eyes fluttered closed in rapture, his fingers tracing the edges of his mouth, head tilted back into the wall, throat bared to the cold air of his cell.

He sighed, the sound tripping out of his cracked lips.

He could still feel the way her knuckles had cracked across his face. Could still feel the heat of her pressed against him, her legs pinning him below her. Could practically _taste_ that righteous fury raining down on him, blow after blow, until he was choking on it.

_So very pretty._

His nails dug into the tender flesh of his mouth, deep enough to break the healing skin and let sharp red run down his neck.

Bryce Wayne. Princess of Gotham.

Jerome barked out a hoarse laugh, legs kicking out in amusement.

And what a _princess_ she was – perched over him with that glinting shard of a mirror, their reflection screaming along the edge of it.

She'd _surprised_ him. He was man enough to admit it. Had toppled his expectations like a stack of cards, fighting like she had.

_Dirty. Bloodied. With her fists raised and fire in her eyes._

He twisted onto his side, giggling to himself, fingers still picking at his torn skin. He smeared it more, covering his lips and remembering the dried blood framing her own. How soft her skin had been when he'd painted her. How thin her wrist was when he'd pressed those staples into her.

How wild she'd looked, makeup ruined and screaming.

His next breath was hitched as he rolled onto his back again, limbs flinging wide. He stared at the ceiling, picking out her features in the stains and cracks.

If he thought hard enough, he could almost imagine her above him now. Snarling a smile. Blue eyes black. Hair frazzled.

It was the most ruffled he'd ever seen her, and it had captured him entirely because he'd finally, _finally_ seen a chink in her armour. Saw behind that mask she wore like a trinket. Beyond the constant downward twist to her lips, the judging gleam in her sharp eyes – like he was _disappointing,_ and _not worth her time._

He'd had her attention that night, though. Oh yes, he certainly had.

Breaking into her too big home had made her stumble, and he'd enjoyed how hard she tried to seem unaffected. _Pretty and brave._

And the _carnival _– he'd never had more fun in his life, watching her blanch and hiss and spit and preach her little number. _Stupid, yet smart._

She hadn't taken her eyes off him that night – hadn't looked away _once,_ and Jerome had, admittedly, been a little flustered himself. He'd put on that show for her, after all, and to have her attention on him – full and unwavering and burning hot on his cold, dead skin – was like a high he never wanted to come down from.

His smile twitched like it wanted to run off his face.

It was ridiculous, really, how smitten he was.

She was barely more than a girl, and too damn _good. _Couldn't even kill him, couldn't drive the shard into his neck like they both knew she'd wanted.

_Weak._

But she'd still knocked him on his ass. Still beaten him bloody, and walked away the winner.

_Only one other person had ever walked away from him before, and Jerome didn't know why his gut clenched at that._

She'd pushed herself up, hands on his chest, and walked away, adjusting her crown as she went, leaving red fingerprints all over the glittering gold.

He drummed his hands on his chest, humming some half-remembered song to himself. He thought back to that look in her eyes and groaned loudly.

He wanted that again. He wanted to push her again, but _this time _send her over that edge. He knew she could do it. He knew that deep down, under her pleated skirts and pearl necklaces, she was just as crazy as him.

He'd seen it. He'd _seen her._ In those mirrors – _the two of them dancing to the beat of Gotham's sick, rotten heart._

He could do it. He could break her. It'd be easy. Mark up her pristine little life. Trailing his fingertips over her white skin. Smash her into piece and gather the remains all for himself. He knew he could turn her into something downright _gorgeous._

Jerome had never had many things in his life, but he knew he could have her. And everyone in Gotham would see them together and _know_ – know that she was _his_ and, a small part of him whispered, that he was _hers._ Because Jerome had never liked being caged, but if it was _her_ holding the key, he thought he wouldn't mind so much.

Just imagining the look on dear old Jim's face had him grinning again, laughter spilling from his lips.

Hell, maybe the man would even _cry _after he saw what Jerome had done to his precious little pet project. The way he always leapt to help her, the way he rushed after her at the first sign of danger, the loyal knight desperate to protect his princess –

His smile curled, morphing into something feral.

She didn't _need _a protector.

She didn't _need _someone to shield her.

She needed someone to light that fuse in her blood. Someone to open her eyes and _make her see._ She needed somewhere to belong that wasn't the shining parties of the elite or the empty mansion she lived in.

One day – one day soon, he'd be back out there. He had _plans _and _ideas _and _a rat little brother _to find, after all.

He was going to be _busy, busy, busy._

But he'd make sure to send her an invitation. A nice, personalised one. Front row seat. Only the best for her.

That's how the blue bloods did it, wasn't it? He was sure she'd appreciate it.

And _after._

After he found his slippery snake of a twin, after he'd finally squeezed the life from all his loose ends and made himself the undisputed ruler of Gotham, torn it down brick by brick to expose the grit and the blood and the _cancer_ it thrived on –

He'd build himself a throne, and a crown to match hers, and he'd go and say _all for you, darlin' _and watch the way her eyes would flash with guilt and horror and _anger._

Jerome laughed again, quieter this time, a private little thing between him and the ghost of her that stood over him.

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**As always, my tumblr ****is open.**

**I'll probably follow this up with a Jeremiah/Bryce oneshot as well. I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


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